Alas the Doubts of a Worn Lover and Brother
by Gareth Marice
Summary: Sam's reaction to Jessica's death is very callous and unjust. Dean notes on that and initiates the conversation that leads to Sam's confession about his powers, but doubts does Sam maintain in his subconscious?


Well yeah, the synopsis really is this whole drama thing between Sam and Dean after Jessica's death and well, I thought it'd be a nice write.

Disclaimer: Yeah, everyone knows I don't own the greatness that is Sam and Dean. Or Supernatural for that matter.

PG-13: Language, Mild Violenc_e_

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_Thud. _That was the noise that ignited Sam's senses in the warm aridity of Dean's Impala. His senses quickly picked up the rough scents of aging coffee and sweaty flesh. It had been several days since either himself or his brother had been allowed an opportunity to cleanse themselves, and the fact that the Impala was air-conditioned impaired aided in no fashion. Still, they were brothers, and they had, if forcibly, gotten used to each other's scents, after all the years of head-on hunting and demonic warfare. 

"Did you hear that?" asked Sam, with his mouth still open and his green eyes trying to adjust to the dim solitude of the night sky whose non-existent rays seemed to douse the fast driving car. He held his hand to his forehead as if checking his own temperature to check if he even had a temperature and he felt his chestnut hair bangs tickle the back of his hand.

Dean, with his hair fixed in its usual upstanding manner and dark eyes focused on the road ahead, had obviously not noted his frightened wake and was more focused on tapping the rhythm of his favorite Metallica song and mouthing the words with emphasis on every swear as it blasted on the radio. Images like this seemed to make Sam wonder how, after all the time he had spent in college, could he tolerate such an unstable environment. An environment that sadly was limited to car doors and windows.

Sam finally made a more visible movement as he lifted his upper body and raised his hands to rub his eyes. He slowly turned his neck and looked at Dean who acknowledged Sam's consciousness with a turn of the volume dial on his cassette player and looked over. "Had a good sleep there, kiddo?" His voice was suddenly a bit raspy after all the screaming that he labeled singing and he considerably coughed to regain his regular tone of voice.

Sam heard the question and looked out at the dark road ahead of them. "Dean, didn't you hear like a thud just a few seconds ago?" Sam asked the question without worry. This was his type of lifestyle and such odd things were nothing new to him. Especially after what had just happened.

"Nope, didn't hear a thing," said Dean in a careless monotone voice. He responded as if though he hadn't even heard the question or bothered to interpret it in his mind, and it was very visible by the way his head didn't even turn as he said anything. He seemed distracted by the road ahead; his hands no longer impatient with the maniac beat of the Metallica songs that seemed to never end. It seemed almost bluntly obvious what Dean was having trouble talking about, which from Sam's eyes seemed to be highly irrelevant to the actual situation.

Sam observed Dean for several seconds as he burned his glare into the very flesh of the side of his brother's face. Dean, for not a single second, turned his head and initiated the awkward stare. He wasn't even aware of Sam's concern. After about a minute of this mockery, Sam took charge and commenced with the conversation that was required. "Dean, what's this all about?"

The corn stalks of the southern state fields seemed to stop their movement as Dean pressed down on the brake. There were no visible cars on the road behind the Impala, which merely allowed for temporary mental security in the brothers. Dean's lip had a tendency to quiver when annoyed by some kind of emotional initiation, but this time was different. Sam could tell by the way that he did not automatically turn his head and shout out his macho-man defense that this would be much different.

"How can you so easily ask that after you watch your girlfriend burn like a fucking witch in Colonial America?" said Dean with slight hesitation. It was almost frightening to Dean that he had actually opened up without much prying needed. He felt like he had lost his edge, and he bit his lip afterwards in fear of Sam's response and the mere thought of his own shame.

Sam felt like letting his jaw drop and allowing it to hit his lap in the intensity of surprise he had received from Dean's unexpected response. He felt almost heartbroken that Dean was going to be doing his grieving. It wasn't Dean's job to care for the dead. It was Sam who always felt the impact. It was what separated him from his brother and father. He was the humane one, and that's when it hit him. Not once in the past eight hours since Jessica had died had Sam shed a single tear.

Sam remembered the event as if distant. It was blurry in his head but he could still remember the shout of terror he provided as he saw her ignite on the very ceiling of the room in which she felt the most secure, her satin sleeping gown becoming engulfed in the flames and her constant face of terror taunting Sam in the most unnatural of ways. He was left paralyzed and in his mind he only hoped he'd burn down with her and end the miserable pile of shit he called his life. But Dean, his hero at the moment, burst through the doors with that expression of force that seemed to shout out his anti-heroics. Still, Dean managed to pull Sam from that bed and drag him out into the less inviting walls of a corridor safe from harm.

From that point on, Sam had not really spoken a word. He was lost for words. He had nothing to express. It had happened again, and he felt lost within the now almost maternal iron walls of Dean's Impala. He had just awoken as if though forgetting what had happened. Not only Jessica's death, but also the thud and the squeal.

So Sam opened his mouth but he recalled he had no words to say. As he did so once more, his mouth closed and he realized that he had nothing to say. His eyelids closed and his brow and upper cheek seemed to clench as slowly teardrops formed at the ending vertices of Sam's eyes and were quickly slid down the stubble of Sam's cheek and found a resting place amongst his neck. He dared not look at Dean anymore as he turned and faced the window. "Dean…This is all my goddamn fault."

"How the fuck would you know such a thing would happen, Sammy?" asked Dean in a very comforting tone of voice. He outstretched his arm and rested it on Sam's shoulder as to offer some kind of condolence. He honestly couldn't tolerate the 'chick-flick moments' as he considered them, but he knew his brother wasn't in a mood for his masculinity cracks.

"That's just the thing, Dean. I knew," said Sam as he at last opened his hiding eyes and allowed the remaining tears to hastily make the progression down his check and meet the others. He still had that sad expression and it nearly killed Dean to his brother this way. He so often recalled their childhood and that same facial expression seemed to show up more than once.

It was a childish sadness to cry over a candy bar not shared, but Dean had always given him half, even when John wasn't there. It was his hormonal sadness to cry over a lack of stable friendships due to constant moving, and it was Dean who would take Sam's letters to the post office. It was Dean who made the phone calls Sam was too scared to make, and it was Dean who held the gun on the nights when Sam felt the presence in his closet or swore he saw a monster under his bed. Dean had always helped that sad face, and this time would be no different.

Dean knew that being interrogative at a time like this would only lead to further igniting of Sam's emotions, which was exactly what Dean was trying to control, but hunting the demon that had killed Jessica was his life ambition, and Dean now understood that he could use this abusive murder to his advantage. It was cruel, maybe, but it was his lifestyle. His father had raised him as a callous and insensitive asshole, and no matter what disrespect and disbelief he received, he did well for the people. No matter what, whatever answers Sam contained would further Dean's chances for revenge for his mother, and now Sam's loss of Jessica. "What do you mean you knew?"

Sam took a quick glance at Dean's face before turning back nervously. He couldn't answer any further. This could not end well, and surely it would end in Sam's demise. Either way, his sudden glance had just cost him any escape. "It's nothing, Dean. Can we just get back on the road?" said Sam as his voice became awkward and he dawdled as he spoke by fidgeting with his jacket zipper as he pulled it up and the scraping noise conjoining his response.

Dean noticed Sam's uneasiness and quickly noted by the fact that Sam was zipping up his jacket and allowing sweat to trickle down his forehead and mingle with the previous teardrops that something wrong was going on. It wasn't the fact that Sam was hiding something from him that sparked the anger. It was the fact that Sam was hiding something important and possibly horrifying that was guilty of such.

"I'm not moving this car until you fucking tell me what's going!" replied Dean as he finally turned off the car to prove his point. The music died and the humming vibrations of the car stopped, hence making the silence more destructive than naturally intended. Dean chronically stared at Sam with a look of longing, disappointment, and disapproval and did not blink for nearly two minutes as he awaited some response from Sam.

Sam on the other hand did not dare meet his brother's gaze. He couldn't quite recall any point in the past few minutes that he had locked eyes with his brother for more than a fraction of a second. He was too frightened. His brother was the hunter. For some odd reason, he felt like the hunted. He assumed there were borderlines between what Dean found acceptable and what Sam found acceptable.

Dean found this silence to only further encourage him to explode as he opened the car door and found himself sitting on the hood, his right leg crossed over his left leg and his arms crossed as he stared angrily at the moon. He couldn't find blame in anything else, and he thought the stars were just as guilty as anyone could be. All Dean knew was this was not Sam or his fault. Blame the world. _Blame everything_.

Sam got out of the car as well and took a seat next to his brother, sinking his hands into his tan jacket and staring at the dirty pavement before him. He became distracted by the yellow markers and counted as far as thirteen (ironically) before remembering what he had to say. He would not answer Dean's question. Yet. Until he got some answers for his questions. "Why did Jessica's death concern you so much?"

Dean had not at all reacted to Sam's presence, but now his voice was a more remarkable trigger than anything possible. "Anything regarding who that demon kills is my business as good as any," replied Dean. It was all he could say really without having to choke himself. He understood Sam's need to protect his understanding. He was in love with the woman, and that's not something so easily forgotten, but this demon was a murderer. Better one death than more, and Dean had to make sure he milked more information out of his brother.

Sam nodded something close to aggressively at the response. He patted his brother on the back and confidently said, "That's all I need to know." Sam got up and walked over to the light green bushes that seemed almost suffocated and deprived of water and somewhat courteously offered them his saliva as he spit into the grass. He ran his hand through his untidy hair and kept it there as he placed his other hand on his hip. He looked back at Dean and was suddenly in a self-conflict as he tried to decide whether to tell Dean or not.

Dean met Sam's eyes and this time he didn't look away. Neither did Sam. It must have been near a hundred sounding heartbeats before Dean finally dared speak by asking "What?" with a resounding chuckle and a smile. The mood was starting to alleviate, or at least it was for Dean.

"Dean…What I meant by knowing that Jessica was dying, I meant that I actually _knew_," replied Sam, as if though hoping his pointless implication would mean anything to Dean. His eyes looked left and right as if though feeling insecure in the thought of other people listening, but then brought them back to Dean and kept them there.

"You might want to tell me what you fucking mean before I'm forced to beat it out of you," said Dean, once more chuckling. To him, this was still a joke. He couldn't understand the heavy weight that pressed down on Sam as he forced himself to talk.

"Dean, days before she died I had a dream of her dying exactly like it happened, and for days after," replied Sam. There was no hesitation as he said it speedily. As soon as he was done he took an over-exaggerated breath to match his over-exaggerated fear. He had gotten the words out, and to him, that wasn't as important as to how Dean was going to react.

So poured forward Dean's natural hunting intentions and he stood up with an almost angry face. "You tell me you've been seeing things?" he asked as he began to walk backwards and step away from Sam. As if though he were some kind of freak. His own blood and brethren had converted to what he killed to build his reputation. He didn't have to think twice before knowing his proper precautions.

Sam stepped forward and outstretched a hand as he tried to grab his brother. He couldn't stand to see that look of fear on Dean's face. Sam had done nothing wrong. He had not asked for this. He had never begged, pleaded, or implied that he desired such abnormalities, and now the only person that mattered was going to reject him a chance of understanding. He was destined and in a way fortuned to be alone. He could do no harm them, no?

Dean walked all the way to the back of the Impala and told Sam, "Don't take a single step or I swear I'll kill you," he said as he quickly opened the trunk and pulled out one of his shotguns, loaded and ready to shoot. It felt cold in his hands in comparison to the burning heat of the night atmosphere. His hands were sweaty and the shotgun felt like it would slip his hands if gripped too tightly, but Dean pulled it the proper distance from his body and turned it slightly so the recoil would not damage him and finally stepped up to Sam and smiled malevolently.

"Dean, no!" cried out Sam as he fell to his knees. He had lost all his cool, and could no longer manage to control emotions as he raised his hands and looked at his brother in desperation. "I haven't hurt anyone. This isn't my fault," he cried. His words held such a sincerity that Dean had never once heard, but this wasn't a matter of honesty or lies. It was a matter of human and supernatural.

"_You_ may not have hurt anyone, Sam. But boy have you been leading that demon to them good. I'm not letting this happen again," said Dean as he know firmly held the gun with fingers in all ready to shoot.

Sam let just one more tear drop combine with the sweat while hearing only a millisecond of the blast before losing all recognition, sense, or memory.

Then he jumped and woke to the thudding sound of Dean hitting the CD case in between them in beat with his music. He was back in the Impala, the temperature even more unbearably warm than in where he just was, and Dean still playfully blasting his music as they drove down dulled gray city streets. Sam's waking reaction of fear and jump was enough to catch Dean's attention as he turned the dark dial once more and lessened the intensity of his music. "What's wrong, Sammy?"

"It's nothing," said Sam as he looked out the window and amongst the self-indulged pedestrians spotted the white and fine figure of his Jessica, the wind blowing her perfectly clean white dress as if though mystically and nearly dreamily.

"We'll pull through this," said Dean reassuringly as he looked at Sam with an aggressively confident yet happy face. Sam just smiled back. His brother had already killed him. What worse could he have it in his dreams?


End file.
